


Deserving

by iamjellinor



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: Friendship, Gen, National Tournament
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-22 17:03:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2515175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamjellinor/pseuds/iamjellinor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Rikkai Dai Fuzoku—” The stadium has fallen completely silent, and even that wild boy from Shitenhouji has stopped flailing about, “—please, collect your award.” Yukimura-centric one-shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deserving

**Author's Note:**

> The result of an unusually persistent plot bunny that just wouldn’t leave me alone. Set at the closing ceremony of the National Tournament (and roughly manga-centric, by the way, but mostly fabricated) and told exclusively from Yukimura’s point of view, it’s yet another little tribute to the awesomeness that is the Troika from Kanagawa. As a long-time Rikkai fan, I tried my best to do justice to the Child of God and his loyal minions, but as always the verdict is all yours. So you let me know how I did, okay? 
> 
> Standard disclaimers apply. First posted on fanfiction.net

**Deserving**

-#-

“...runners-up, Rikkai Dai Fuzoku!”

When the name of their school is finally called out, the whole stadium erupts in noise, and he is pleased to note that it’s not the polite, meaningless sort (like the limp, insincere clapping at the conclusion of last year’s disappointing final against Makinofuji) but spontaneous, uninhibited and overwhelming. It’s the kind of applause that attests to true appreciation; all around them hundreds of hands crash into each other, and their chant – Rikkai’s chant – has spread far beyond the boundaries of their own group of faithful supporters, drowning nearly everything in sound.

As he stands there, electrified by the cheering and the chanting and with the adrenaline from earlier still pulsing through every corner of his being, Yukimura suddenly feels more alive than ever, and for that he can almost forgive Tezuka’s Seigaku for its insolence. This was a final that will not be forgotten for a few years yet… if, perhaps, ever.

“Runners-up, Rikkai Dai Fuzoku!” repeats the man (probably the director of the Tokyo Tennis Arena, or someone equally bureaucratic) into his microphone, a little bit more impatiently this time, and the racket immediately levels and dies down.

All eyes are on him now, Yukimura can feel that quite clearly: fourth-place Nagoya Seitoku’s assembled members’ from his left, Seigaku and third-place Shitenhouji’s from his right, his own teammates’ from behind and everyone else’s from all around. But he keeps his default smile firmly in place, giving no indication whatsoever that he means to move away from his place at the very front of Rikkai’s line-up.

The man presiding on the low stage – a hastily put-together structure on Centre Court, completed while Seigaku’s celebration raged at its worst – is clutching his microphone as if his life (or at least the success of his event) depended on it. Perhaps some of his nervousness stems from the many flashing cameras and the crowd of sport reporters courtside, or from sharing the limelight with the immensely popular president of the All-Japan Junior Tennis Association, but Yukimura finds the possibility of Director-san somehow getting wind of the closing ceremony at this year’s Kantou Tournament where Yukimura’s darling, idiot team caused quite the scandal by stubbornly refusing their medals, and thus fearing a similarly dramatic conclusion here at his own event, a much, _much_ more entertaining alternative.

“Rikkai Dai Fuzoku—” The stadium has fallen completely silent, and even that wild boy from Shitenhouji has stopped flailing about, “ _—please_ , collect your award.”

But Yukimura doesn’t move. His senses, however, are quick to register the mounting anticipation in the barely-there movement of his team lined up behind him, and that alone tells him all that he needs to know. Even now Rikkai remains as loyal as it always was, and it will follow him should he choose to walk out on the proceedings right now.

Of course, a certain someone is unlikely to let things go that far. In fact, at any moment now, that certain someone should have had enough of the theatrics.

“Yukimura.”

Finally, thinks Yukimura to himself. But it took him long enough! Sanada had better not be slacking.

“You go ahead, Sanada,” he says in a low voice meant for one pair of ears only, while maintaining a polite smile at Director-san who looks far from pleased. “We’ll only accept it if it’s you.”

“ _You’re_ our captain,” Sanada promptly mutters back, his tone overflowing with disapproval. “What are you playing at with all this nonsense?”

“We shouldn’t keep everyone waiting,” insists Yukimura gently, but in his buchou-voice to make it clear (as if Sanada wasn’t aware of it already) that this is an order, not a friendly suggestion.

There is a small, irritated sigh. But not a full second later, Sanada steps out of Yukimura’s shadow, muttering under his breath as he marches past, “…tarundoru.”

Yukimura isn’t sure just what Sanada means by that exactly. But hearing him say it feels strangely comforting, all the same.

“Seiichi,” murmurs a voice near his ear, “that was very generous of you.”

Exactly one person on the team calls Yukimura that, and he must have made his move as soon as Sanada broke formation. It’s one of their many unspoken rules (along with not asking unnecessary questions about the rock in Sanada’s racquet bag, and not forcing Renji to come along for karaoke ever again): in the unlikely event that one of them should be absent, it is up to the others to step in and fill the void the best that they can.

“He deserves it, Renji,” replies Yukimura quietly, idly watching Director-san quickly wiping his face and forehead with a spotted handkerchief as Sanada accepts Rikkai’s plaque from the AJJTA president with a stiff but respectful bow. “Even if it isn’t the Championship this time, I can’t think of anyone who deserves the recognition more than Sanada.”

Yukimura doesn’t expect Renji to comment on the obvious (Renji usually doesn’t), but something’s brief but firm contact with his right shoulder speaks of approval in a way that Yanagi Renji never would.

But then Sanada steps down from the makeshift podium, quickly making his way back to them with twice the purpose in his steps (and twice the murder in his eyes, Yukimura concludes with equal measures fondness and amusement) as when he left, and Renji wisely shuffles back a few steps to reclaim his proper place in front of Akaya.

The vice-captain proceeds to dispose of his spoil by simply and unceremoniously dumping it into Yukimura’s hands with a fabulously pointed look (‘Next time, get your damn award yourself, Yukimura!’ it seems to say), before rejoining the ranks to the sound of a distinctively Niou-ish snicker swiftly followed by a typically Yagyuu-esque reprimand.

Yukimura is still studying the neat inscription when Director-san says something about Seishun Gakuen being the winner of this year’s competition, and the sports arena promptly explodes with applause all over again.

Well.

The plaque looks nice enough, Yukimura supposes. But silverware has a _much_ better feel to it.


End file.
